


Skyscrapers Glow Like They'll Never Fall Down

by Garlicbreadbowl



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Cats, Depression, Existential Angst, Learning To Open Up, Painting, The Institute sucks and X deserves better, book clubs, friendships, hate-reading, i promised some1 cats and i swear we will get there, internalized victim-blaming, piper is a good friend, rose-tinted sunglasses, self-projection tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:04:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19355755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garlicbreadbowl/pseuds/Garlicbreadbowl
Summary: He is good at reading people. His senses are superior to a human’s, and he can see every micro-expression, every subtle twitch. He is good at reading people’s emotions. He is not good at understanding them. Especially not when the emotions are his own. Hard to organize your thoughts when you aren’t supposed to have them, and bury them like the skeletons in your closet.(This is now a new fanfic! I'm revising. You can read this if you want, but it won't be updated. I recommend V2, on my page)





	1. The pains of adjustment

**Author's Note:**

> In which I self-project onto X6. 
> 
> title is from handmade heaven by marina
> 
> wanted to do this for a while, hope yall enjoy
> 
> Playlist for this fanfic is called Skyscrapers Glow, my Spotify is grimmphy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listened to Papaoutai by Stromae while editing. 
> 
> If anyone wants it, I'm down to make a playlist on Spotify for this

 

Things have changed with the new Director. He knew that would be the case the moment he met the man; he obviously had different plans for the Institute. Father died of cancer and his father took his place - that X6 expected. He knew there would be changes - he didn't expect them to be so irreligious to the ideals of the Institute.   

    

The synths are 'free' now. He disagrees with this change - they are machines. Machines are not 'free'. 'Free' is what you call an item at a shop after shoving your rifle in the shop-owners face. Now that the synths are 'free', the humans are now required to treat them with respect. Even the Gen 2s. They all have name tags, with their preferred name of choice, and preferred pronouns.      

  

The humans in the Institute do not own them anymore. Don't tell the Gen2 to throw away your garbage when you have legs. Don't use the Gen3 as a servant. Don't yell at them for mouthing off at you when you insult them. X6 witnessed a Gen2 call one of the scientists a colorful barrage of choice names with no fear of being wiped.      

  

The synths have an education system. Various classes to help them learn how to be human (impossible, they are machines) and understand individuality. Cooking, sewing, gardening, weapon and armor crafting, sciences and mathematics. Psychology, Sociology, gender studies. The Director allowed any synth to leave the Institute and never come back. Half of the Gen2s and a third of the Gen3s left to join the Minutemen.      

  

The scientists nearly rebelled in light of the new developments. The Director flashed his teeth and they shut up. X knew that the scientists hated the new Director - they made it clear with slurs. The insults had stopped since the Director recovered mentally (X did not believe in miracles, but if he did, then Dr. Cabot worked in them), but the first impressions have long-lasting consequences.   

  

All of the new-founded autonomy was difficult to comprehend. The synths in the Institute exploded into joy when the new laws and liberties were put in place. X6 did not. The fear of punishment will never leave him.  


~  


He had a residence in Sanctuary. The Director (who insists X6 calls him by his name, an informality that makes his skin itch) called it his home. It's similar to one of the apartment complexes in Sanctuary, but instead of a waiting room and check-in area, it's a cramped living room and kitchen. He lived with a cage fighter, freak, serial liar, mercenary, Miss Nanny turned Synth, detective, Minuteman, and an ex-raider who he would love to shoot.  

  

Curie, he liked the best out of them in the building. She's a woman/machine of science, and it's comforting away from the clean walls of the Institute. She challenges him to games of chess with tea and healthy 'snack cakes' (if it's healthy, it's not a snack cake). The doctor was the most welcoming of the group - he worried about lesser people trying to take advantage of that.   

  

The detective, Mr. Valentine, is also bearable - clean, sharp, and polite.  

 

Mr. MacCready, he somewhat admires. MacCready is similar to him - caps are important, and murder is enjoyable. There's also the young man's marksmanship. Of course, X's better with a rifle, but MacCready trained himself. X6's skill is mostly cybernetic enhancements, so MacCready has that bragging right.  

  

He wanted nothing more than to shoot Gage. Cait has become more beneficial since Vault 95, but he still considered her the usual wasteland garbage. Hancock was more wasteland garbage. Garvey was okay and is one of the few topsiders he thinks takes frequent baths. The Minuteman's optimism was going to get him killed, though. The Paladin used to live with them but moved in with the Director and his son.  

  

Danse was the only person in the group (aside from the Director) that he truly enjoyed living alongside and had desires to befriend (he'll never act on them). He always thought Maxson would look better without a head; now, he'd love to strangle the man-child with that stupid, god-awful coat.  

 

Deacon was many things - it's his gimmick. None of those things were good. The Director seemed to like him, which is the only reason why the spy had yet to disappear in the middle of the night. X believed that the feeling was mutual - Deacon's jokes were always far more malicious with him than the others. Even Danse had it easier, more notably after the 'incident'.  

 

He could inwardly complain all he wanted. The Director wanted him to assimilate into his 'family'. He has to follow orders, no matter how much they make his skin crawl.  
  
~  
  
  


Sanctuary is impressive - something he'd never thought he'd say about a settlement on the surface. The Director is ever-expanding. The little island in the split of a river was all there was a year ago - now, Concord is in the heart of the hustle and bustle of the shopping district. The farms are some of the biggest in the Wasteland. 60 acres and counting of Mutfruit fields, never-ending rows of razorgrain and corn. The Director had the Institute work on cloning Old World plants, and the first strawberry patches recently turned up under a dozen pounds of produce, something the 'Wealth's new capital celebrated with 75% off beers.

There's something...tender about Sanctuary. The soft pastels of the buildings help with that. They also help make him feel like an open target and make him want to disappear. Black is stark and unwelcome against baby blues and lemony yellows. If he used metaphors, he'd say it was just like him and the citizens of Sanctuary.

~

He understands the meaning of freedom - and how a machine could ever be free - when the Director offers him his own apartment in one of the complexes near the strawberry fields. A new apartment free from the stress of living with the Director's other companions. The complex is the "Concord Inn". He's grateful that the Director didn't try to give it some hippie name, like the "Freedom Inn" or "New Hope Inn" like the way the Minutemen insist on naming settlements. The Inn _was_ painted a deep red, highlighted with faded white, built with the colonial style to match the surrounding architecture. It does not have the cleanly comfort of the Institute, nor does it have the smell of bleach that sticks to him no matter what he wades through. The apartment is better to look at. The Director had it specially decorated for his tastes. Monochrome color-palette, minimalist decor. There's a small reading nook under the window overlooking the strawberry fields, flanked by empty bookshelves for him to fill to his desire. He moves in quickly and takes a day to raid the bookshops of Boston and Cambridge to fill the shelves.

~

 

A corner bookstore in the heart of Boston proved simple to secure. The chaos inside was only from the previous inhabitants that lay dead on the floor. Like usual, the raiders fell pathetically. Stepping over their still-warm bodies, he scanned the shelves for anything of interest. Posters stuck stubbornly to the walls, advertising new releases and dates for book-club meetings.      

      

He shuffled through bodies and trash. Most of the shelves were empty. He highly doubted raiders would take books.      

      

His eyes caught on a falling-apart note pinned on the bulletin board behind the counter. 'Clean and dust shelves' in messy chicken-scratch and below it, 're-organize books before the opening in two days'. A backroom key hanging from a tack on the board jingles as he plucks it from its perch. The grungy blue door hidden behind the shelves squeaks quietly when he opens it.      

 

Stacks of labeled boxes and a few terminals sit covered in grime. Dust flies into the air when the door opens, swirling violently in the dim light. A smaller box sits beside one of the desks, labeled "book club reading". He was hesitant to walk into the dust-storm, knowing his coat will not survive without needing a wash, but he came for books, and he had found books.      

      

Only one of the terminals worked - used by the leader of the little book club. Business records and stock lists are the majority of the entries, but she wrote book reviews in her spare time. He didn't know if she intended publishing them publicly, or if it was for some newsletter written for her book club. Either way, the reviews were of the books in the box beside her desk. None of them are positive. On a scale of 1 to 5, the highest is 2. He reads them all. Her least favorite of the seven books is a romance novel, titled "Ecstasy of the Flame". Some of the older scientists at the Institute read it - pre-war heirlooms, it was notorious before the war. The woman, named Trisha, called the novel 'an embarrassment and glamorization of abuse'. She went on for pages and pages, listing every little flaw she could possibly find. She had a drinking game - a shot for every occurrence of incorrect grammar.      

      

Trisha's tone dripped with such contempt and disgust, he had to know what justified it. It couldn't be that bad, right? He brought the box of Trisha's self-declared garbage back to the cold apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mosty edited grammar and a few sentences. Note to self: always beta-read.


	2. Weather-based depression and donuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we self-projecting hard today boys
> 
> listened to The Village by Wrabel and summer depression by girl in red for the first parts. lIstened to Oh Klahoma by Jack Stauber and I wanna get better by Bleachers for the end parts.
> 
> Also, I am so sorry for how long this took. We're going bathroom renovations, and it's a bit chaotic right now. 
> 
> Don't forget, music for this fanfic is on spotify if you wanna see everything i listen to while writing this
> 
> Also! if you have questions or want updates, my tumblr is garlicbreadbowl

As he read farther and farther into the pages, he understood some of Trisha's complaints. 

 

The grammar was abhorrent. The anatomy and biology of the adult scenes were... _horrifying_. The plot was senseless. The main character, Ally, was ‘forced’ to pick between her childhood boyfriend, Axton, her current fiance, Chandler, or her new co-worker, Jacob. 

 

He understood qualms with grammar and story. He did not understand the complaints about the characters. She called Jacob abusive and predatory, Chandler a negligent husband, and Axton ‘the only character more boring than Ally.'

 

If he analyzed the text right, Ally was a representation of the author’s issues. Jacob was a symbol of her desire to take a risk with danger. Axton was her desire for familiarity and to play it safe. Chandler showed her frustrations with her current life and changes. In the book, Jacob existed to advance the plot. Axton was there to cause issues with Jacob, make him jealous, and remind Ally that she wanted Jacob. Chandler was to mistreat her so she needed to fall into another man’s arms for comfort. 

 

He understood the reason for each character - he didn't understand why it’s a bad thing. Trisha lists several other romances novels as examples of the genre done well. If he was to understand why ‘Ecstasy of the Flame’ is lacking, he must compare it with higher-rated material. Research into the genre was needed before he could decide for himself. He went back to the bookstore, and brought back a box marked “Romance."

~

 

He took a walk around Concord. It had been raining for the past few days. The settlers and civilians were hiding from the storm,  which allowed him the freedom to go where he pleased with no interruptions, strange looks, or mutters of his origins. He didn’t like getting wet. He did like having isolation for a day, and the downpours gave him that. The gloom and fog are something he disappears into, vanishing from a world he’ll never understand.

 

He’s used to Concord being filled with noise and people. The void and silence reminded him of the Institute. He’d go back, but the Director has assigned him to Sanctuary. The Institute is no longer his place of residence. 

 

Somewhere along the way, the streets became unfamiliar. The pastels had faded from their cheery, soft natures amidst the thick blanket of mist. The world was hazy and so was his mind. He slipped into these trances, from time to time. He huffed and pulled his coat tighter around himself. Those days are the strangest. It’s like every limb is out of place; like every breath is unnatural. He gets check-ups, thinking something has gone wrong physically. He always comes out in perfect health. He always comes out feeling wrong. His chest felt hollow and there was a throbbing behind his eyes. He blamed it on his synthetic body being faulty. Easier that way.

 

~

The rain cleared overnight. He knew the moment he woke up and heard the city's noises again instead of the torrent. He can see the shops across the street from his window now, meaning the fog lifted too. The fog in his mind hadn't.  His chest still felt hollow. 

 

His limbs were heavy, but he lifted his arm behind his neck, rubbing at the coding printed there like a scar. The pattern of ones and zeros was uniformly on his mind - he had to memorize that the scientists would know. They always watched - nothing got by them. Either they would see the signs or another synth would narc to protect themselves. The secrets in the Institute were for the scientists only - your skeletons would always be unearthed. He conveniently buries his from everyone. The other synths and Coursers would allow themselves to be free around the others they trusted - sometimes, even him. Designation X6-88 does not, for he may keep the closet door shut for the others, he did not trust anyone else to do the same for _him_. 

 

His jaw was painfully clenched, and he didn't seem to be able to take his eyes away from the ceiling. The fog had become thicker and stayed longer ever since the new Director. He tensed involuntarily - he trained himself to long ago - to keep himself from trembling. His bottom lip had scars from where he'd bite to stay quiet on the rare occasion the fog surrounded too harshly and the tears wouldn't stay back. 

 

He was not allowed or supposed to feel. He does, and he does it with fear and humiliation. He had no intention of telling or showing. These days, to be crude, _suck_. 

 

He wanted to get up and shut the curtains, keep that sickly light out, but he lacked the strength. He was not alive - how does an _object_ run out of energy? The bed is not welcoming - comfortable, yes, but the feeling of being out of place stuck to him like the gazes of wastelanders. It isn't like the grime of the Commonwealth - neither could wash off, no matter how much soap or force used.

 

Rapid knocking on the door startled him - only for a moment, he wasn't _that_ absent-minded - and he identified the visitor as the reporter from Diamond City; the distance of the knocks from the floor, the impatience and persistence, and tapping of her boot were dead-giveaways. The reporter had left to do a Q & A for the future of the Institute with the Director on DC Radio with Mr. Miles. The residents had been shell-shocked upon learning that Ms. Wright was Ms. Right, the Mayor _was_ a synth. The last time he passed through with the reporter, those who had mocked and threatened her either sidled up to her ingenuously or straight-up ran and hid. 

 

He was tempted to just... _let her knock_ until she left, but he prided himself on his manners. Such manners demand that he got up, put a shirt on, and answer the door. He took his time to spite Ms. Wright for making him get up, though. She responded by pretty much punching his door. He opened the door while Ms. Wright was mid-swing - a motion she stopped at half-way. 

 

Ms. Wright wasn't in her red coat-ensemble, dressing accordingly for the hot weather in shorts and a tank-top. (He privately thought she was a coward - he'd sooner melt than change out of his blacks. Her lack of dedication to aesthetics was evidence of a weak spirit) Ms. Wright leaned on the door frame, large, colorful, and very recognizable boxes in her arms. "Hey, killer. Now, I know me knocking on your door usually means I wanna yell questions at you, but I'm playing _nice_ for once. " She half-smiles, gesturing with her head at the Slocum Joe's boxes. 

 

He stood aside, letting her in to put them on the table. He did so only because Ms. Wright was another of the _few_ of Mr. Coldridge's companions that he liked. She was a constant problem for the Institute, but her intelligence and determination were admirable. "Blue told me you packed up and left the nest, thought I'd give you a 'going away' and 'welcome to the building' gift. Fresh out of the deep-fryers - made sure to get your regular." He opens a box, and sure enough, the donuts are drizzled with honey and Mutfruit jelly. He had no idea how she knew his favorite. 

 

"Thank you, Ms. Wright. How did it go on the radio? I trust everything went smoothly?" He asked, pushing a box towards her as he took a seat. The attempt at polite conversation worked, and Ms. Wright mumbled a 'thanks' before sitting on his table like some feral child and tearing off pieces of the hot pastry.

 

She inhales and exhales sharply, brushing her hair behind her ears and wiping some jelly off of her cheek. "The Q & A went perfectly.  We talked about the new rules and laws, the new direction the Institutes going - which I _know_ _you're grumpy_ about, but _come on_ , what Jesse is doing now is way better than destroying settlements just so you can keep treating people like lab rats - and about synths and what they are. Y'know, try and help people get you guys so they aren't afraid of you anymore," She said gently, licking jelly off her fingers. "And answered the questions we all had, like 'Why were you kidnapping us?' 'What's the deal with the Railroad and Brotherhood, I thought there was a war?' Jess went on for a while explaining that one, but I think people still expect someone - the Brotherhood, most likely - to go back on the truce and burn everything to the ground. Maxson still hates the Railroad and Institute, and now Blue thinks he might start gunning for the _Minutemen_ for the position of the 'Wealth's dominant military. " Ms. Wright sighed, picking at her cuticles the way she whenever she was nervous.

 

 _That_ was disturbing. Maxson and the Brotherhood came to the Commonwealth with one mission - exterminate all synths, and end the Institute. _Bad_. This mission earned the ire of the Railroad. _Good_ , let the cancers kill each other. But the _Minutemen_? The Minutemen were nothing but beneficial to the Wasteland - clean water and food, protected settlements that didn't look like _scrap metal glued together,_ and communication between places previously isolated. The Director had even started a project of cleaning the roads for more accessible travel, setting up Minutemen outposts where raiders would. Destroying the Minutemen wouldn't just be unnecessary bloodshed - it would cause a collapse of everything the Director had accomplished, of the Commonwealth. The BoS would become domestic terrorists, invaders. Maxson had to be out of his mind. 

 

"You have to be joking. Maxson can't be _that_ stupid. Mr. Coldridge has artillery everywhere - Maxson makes one move, and that blimp is in the ocean, along with all of his soldiers. The Minutemen army isn't farmboys with guns, and the Railroad and Institute are branches of it - any war he started would have three separate fronts, all formidable in different aspects. He'd lose any war before he could even _start_ it." X6 marveled at the sheer irresponsibility of it all. If the Institute moved to the Capital Wasteland and started picking fights with every faction capable of mopping the floor with them, he'd reasonably _strangle_ whoever responsible for the decision. He couldn't imagine Maxson thinking war would end in his favor, much less imagine any BoS soldier agreeing with him.  He liked to think the ground-beef-diet simple-minded jocks near the coast weren't _entirely_ inbred.

 

Ms. Wright shrugged, shaking her head. "Yeah, Blue isn't worried about _losing_ \- he's worried that he'll have to kill an entire army. He doesn't want all that death and bodies on his hands. We'll win, but we won't _feel good_ about it. Well, _I'd_ love to throttle Maxson, but there are good people in that blimp - not a lot, but we also have to think of those kids on board. I don't think I'd sleep well knowing they'd die because of their leader's ego, especially since the way they'd die; getting stuck inside a destroyed metal carcass at the bottom of the ocean where no one can hear you scream?" She muttered. He tried to change the topic. 

 

"Did the DC residents enjoy the show? I assume they had far more questions than before MacDonough. One woman here in Sanctuary has a conspiracy theory that the Minutemen are synths, building settlements as traps to find more victims for the Institute. Not far off from Diamond City's train of thought." He realized he hadn't even had a donut yet, Ms. Wright's suggestion of the BoS breaking the truce made the little dough balls of heaven cross his mind completely. Luckily for him, they were still hot. Jelly and honey melted, dripping and sliding down and into the box. God, Slocum Joe's was the bomb.

 

Ms. Wright nearly choked on donuts while trying to speak with her mouth full. "Oh, _my god!_ They went insane. During the whole 'So here was the Institute's deal and what we're doing now' part, they were okay.  When we started getting into Sanctuary, the Minutemen and Railroad, and the future for Diamond City now that the Minutemen are there? The fact that Ghouls and synths are welcome now and rich folks have no power anymore really set some people off. Blue's working on weeding through the guards, get the corrupt ones out of there. Myrna didn't like the news that discrimination can now get your business shut down. The people who give Nick a hard time aren't happy that he's now pretty much Vice-Mayor. It was like chicken soup for my soul. " She hummed, savoring the high she got off of proving everyone wrong. She leaned back on her palms, swinging her legs. Then, it happened.

 

'Ecstacy of the Flame' was sitting on the table. Judging by the way Ms. Wright noticed it in her peripherals, snapped her head around to look at it and gasped, she knew the contents. She saw the bookmark. She, without-a-doubt, realized he was reading _mom-porn._ A realization that he picked up on too late. The donut he was shoving in his face cost him the precious seconds he needed to ensure the word didn't get out. It was already too late. The realization of her realization washed over him like ice water, and he froze with a donut half-shoved in his mouth. 

 

Ms. Wright swallowed gently. "X6-88?" She asked sweetly, trying to suppress the laughter in her voice. She glanced at him, but her eyes locked on to the trashy cover-art of a man and woman's silhouette illuminated by a fireplace as they, presumably, did the do. He felt like a Radstag in a Deathclaw's line of sight. The she-devil wheezed out a ghost of a laugh. "Is that what I think it is?

 

_"If you tell anyone I'll kill you."_

 

"Oh, no, no, it's fine, don't get me wrong," Ms. Wright puts her hands up. "It's just...I-I don't even know what to say to you right now. "

 

"I could take my rifle and shoot you before you'd knew I stood up."

 

"I mean...I get it, we all have guilty pleasures-"

 

"It's not a guilty pleasure."

 

"Good for you! Enjoy what you like, dude."

 

"No! It's not- _I don't enjoy it!"_ He was thoroughly red-faced at that point. He could kill her, but the Director would be _furious_. Ms. Wright did not take bribes, threats of death bounced off of her, and threatening her sister would backfire. He was _screwed_.

 

Ms. Wright snapped her fingers, "Oh, you mean, like, _hate-reading?!_ Oh, thank god. I didn't know if I could ever look you in the eyes again. Okay, yeah, that makes more sense, totally understandable." 

 

Under no circumstances could he trust Ms. Wright to keep that secret quiet. His reputation and dignity were floating dangerously close to the garbage disposal. At that moment, Ms. Wright was a predator, and the only thing making him truly prey was the fact that he couldn't outright shoot her. Ms. Wright plucked the cursed novel off the table, holding it out in front of her and flipped through the pages. "Wow, you managed to get to chapter _nineteen_? I had to stop at thirteen. The nasty scene with Ally and Chandler made me lose my lunch."

 

X couldn't help but make a slight face. Burned into his mind were those paragraphs. The choice of words and descriptions were either an attempt at trying to show Chandler in an unattractive/revolting light or the author was very unashamed of her fetishes. It took him four hours to read that chapter - he had to put the book down and walk off the disgust every sentence. "I'll never understand pre-war humans. Whoever allowed that chapter to be published should have been _arrested_. "

 

"Whoever _wrote this book_ should have been arrested! This poor excuse for a novel is a waste of paper. I mean, come on," Ms. Wright flipped to a random page, " Get a load of this. 'My dearest Ashley, your body has been the subject of my dreams for over a fortnight. I've dreamed of doing the filthiest thing to'- wait, wait, wait - _Ashley?!"_   Ms. Wright buried her face into the pages, staring closely at yet another instance of the author forgetting everything about her characters.  

 

X6 tilted his head, reading the author's name. "The author is _Ashley_ Kemble. This book is an author's self-indulgent fantasy - not surprising that she forgot she wasn't the main character." He leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms as Ms. Wright burst into a cruel cackle. 

 

Ms. Wright wiped a tear from her cheek, wheezing in laughter. "Oh, sweet Jesus. _Oh, my god._ What chapter is this in?" She flipped the pages forward. "Chapter seventeen. God, I'm gonna need to finish this thing. Forgot what a gold-mine of giggles this thing was." Ms. Wright paused, staring thoughtfully at the cover. "Y'know something? We should read this together."

 

"Pardon?"

 

"You know what book clubs are, right? We could read it chapter by chapter, then meet up for lunch or dinner or whatever, then complain. Hate-reading is always funnier with someone else. I could probably get Cait to read it, too. She'd tear this apart like she does with raiders. I mean, it's better than suffering through this alone, right?" Ms. Wright half-smiled pleadingly. It was not the first time she had tried to trick him into socializing. 

 

He tensed. Not only did he not want Cait to know he read a mom-novel, but he didn't have the desire to insert himself within the Director's group. He was perfectly fine on his own. Sure, maybe he went a little crazy being around people he didn't know or trust. Even if he did want to, he wasn't allowed to. Machines don't have friends. Those that tried to were killed. The scientists called it being wiped. The synths called it death. 

 

He thought carefully, checking his deck of cards for the best one to play. "I'm not sure what the point is, but I imagine that Mr. Coldridge would be pleased if I accepted, and harass me if I declined. So," He threw his hands up in defeat. _"Screw it._ Sure. I didn't know Cait could read, but sure. What's the worst that could happen." 

 

The grin Ms. Wright had on her face genuinely scared him. She pumped her fists in the air, jumping off the table and ran out the door, shouting over her shoulder, "Great! I'll go get Cait, _don't read anymore!"_

 

She left to his door open in her rush out. He stood from his chair, sighing in pre-emptive exhaustion of what was to come as he shut it behind her. Then, he slammed his head against it _exactly_ six times, each thud harder than the last. 

 

At least he had donuts to drown his anxiety. 


End file.
